


A Hint of Spice

by giraffeminion



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dating, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Food, Food Trucks, H/D Food Fair 2018, Harry Potter Cooks, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy Friendship, Indian Harry Potter, M/M, Matchmaking Hermione Granger, Matchmaking Pansy Parkinson, Post-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-07-13 20:57:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16025849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giraffeminion/pseuds/giraffeminion
Summary: After the war, Draco breaks ties with the wizarding world to lead a quiet and uneventful life as a financial advisor on the outskirts of Muggle London. His peaceable existence is broken, however, when a damnable food truck sets up shop right outside his front door.





	A Hint of Spice

**Author's Note:**

> For Prompt #[28](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1E_uQJlIb5C6nLnMg8VrUUnrKtyx16is1FLbyvoxLEik/edit).
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely Ava, who doesn't even have an A03 account (yet).

Draco stared out the window and cursed the sun. The day was bright, the breeze light, and the air just warm enough to remind you it was summer. Draco was stuck indoors, and he was miserable. _At least 1000 words,_ he reminded himself. _Then you can go outside._ The birds chirped, and Draco thunked his head on the table. “Damn it,” he muttered. He half-rose from the chair, then sat back down. _Closing the window would make me more miserable,_ he reasoned, _trapping the heat,_ but the bustling city sounds, the children's laughter from the local park, and that GODDAMN BIRD changed his mind. 

He stalked to the window and stopped, hand gripping the sill. _What’s that smell?_ A sweet and savory smell wafted through the window. Draco sniffed. Whatever it was, it smelled delicious and destroyed Draco's already crumbling resolve. He stuck his head out the window and attempted to source the smell. _It's not my neighbors,_ he thought, _I'm definitely WAY too intimately acquainted with their recipes._ He looked down the block to the corner store coffee shop, where he sometimes gave in and invested in overpriced coffee and a new environment. They were closed. _Hmm,_ Draco puzzled, then looked directly down. Parked directly below his window was a truck. It was painted a cheery orange that was one shade past annoying, with bold elegant font blazed across the roof that said **‘Chapati Papi.’** _Huh,_ Draco thought. _You're not even hungry,_ he snapped to himself, like a liar. _Get it together!_ He slammed the window down and plopped back into his seat. He didn't move for three hours.

The sun having shifted to slant across the far wall, Draco finally stood up, yawning and stretching. His back cracked, and he winced. _Maybe it's still there,_ he thought hopefully, and peered down into the street below. A familiar grey van sat in the space instead. _Ah well,_ Draco shrugged to himself and reached for the phone. _Pizza again, I suppose._

The next day was grey and cloudy, which definitely improved Draco’s concentration. Or at least it should have, given his usual working patterns. Less distractions. Yet, somehow, he couldn’t focus. He felt listless and unmotivated. _I should just give this up,_ he thought. _I don’t have anything interesting to say._ Of course, this was the moment that the clouds chose to part and warm sun bathed Draco’s face. _Is this a sign that I said something true, or that I shouldn’t give up?_ Draco wondered, then kicked himself for treating cloud patterns as Divination. Cheered by the sunlight, Draco tugged at the window to get some fresh air. Instead of the crisp afternoon breeze, he inhaled that same delicious smell from yesterday. The heinously orange truck was once again parked under his window. Any resolve he might have clung to Disapparated. Practically running down the stairs, he reasoned to himself that new experiences are supposed to fuel creativity. 

Flinging open the door that led to the street, Draco took a moment to breathe in the outside air and let the sunshine thaw him. He closed his eyes and stretched, rotating his shoulders and twisting to crack the troublesome spots in his spine. “Malfoy?” a familiar voice asked, and Draco’s eyes shot open to come into direct, searing eye contact with the Savior-of-the-Wizarding-World himself. Draco was not conscious of making any decisions, but suddenly he was back in the entrance hall of his building, leaning on the door he had slammed behind him. 

He was flooded with delayed visual details that he hadn’t realized he’d taken in during that split second. Potter’s usually tousled bird’s nest wrapped neatly into a bun at the back of his head. A shadow of a beard grazing his cheeks. His absurdly round spectacles replaced by trendy plastic frames. His mouth dropped open in shock. 

_How did he find me?_ Draco seethed, but then chided himself for being so self-centered. _The Boy-Who-Lived has better things to do than look for me,_ he reminded himself.

Not that Draco was paying attention, but the next day a significant line sprouted from Potter’s truck. When Draco happened to notice a lull in the patronage, he quickly, and quite coincidentally, decided to take his lunch break. With the greatest attempt at appearing casual, Draco strolled out the door and toward the truck. Potter was helping a customer, and somehow several more had appeared in line. _Where did they come from???_ Any confidence Draco had evaporated. He ducked his head and tried to hurry past, but Potter chose, at that moment, to be unusually observant. “Oy, Malfoy!” he called, and Draco froze in his tracks. He rotated, as slowly as he could. “Potter?” he feigned surprise. “What are you doing here?” 

“I run this food truck!” Potter exclaimed, spreading his arms wide. Draco barely resisted rolling his eyes and making a comment about Captain Obvious. His lack of reaction seemed to dampen some of Potter’s enthusiasm, but only minutely. “Would you like some?” Draco hesitated, and the man who Potter had been ringing up chose that moment to cough politely. 

Potter turned back to his customer, and Draco made to sneak away, but Potter called, “Just wait for me to finish this up!” Draco hovered anxiously at the periphery of the truck. In between the next customers, Harry told him to take a look at the menu and that he would “get you a mango lassi in the meantime.” _A what?_ Draco thought to himself, but resigned himself to the wait. 

With the line cleared, Potter reached back to snag a yellow smoothie and handed it to Draco. Draco took a hesitant sip, and released an involuntary “Mmm.” The sweet and cool drink slid down his throat, an antidote to the heat that he hadn’t realized he had needed. “What would you like?” Potter asked, gesturing toward the menu. “Umm, ahh...” was all Draco could manage. 

“Do you like curry?” Potter asked, then chuckled to himself. “Of course you like curry, who doesn’t?” 

Draco coughed self consciously. “Curry?” 

“Yeah!” Potter enthused. “So far we only offer coconut curries, but i’m hoping to explore some tomato-based recipes soon. The paneer is fairly popular, and of course…” Draco cut him off hastily. “Potter.” Potter stopped rambling. “Huh?” Draco stared at a crack in the cement, too embarrassed to look Potter in the eye as he admitted, “I’ve never had curry.”

Potter, momentarily taken aback, wasn’t speechless for long. “Oh okay! Are you more of a fan of biryani? or…”

It was too much. Draco gave into his fight or flight instincts: “Actually, I'm not actually hungry, I gotta run, gotta deadline, you know what procrastination's like, thanks for the…drink, bye!” Draco turned and fled, _like the coward I am,_ he thought glumly. “Wait, Malfoy!” but Draco pretended not to hear, didn’t turn around, refused to think about why he didn't want to see Potter’s smile drop from his face. And know he was responsible. 

Back in his office, Draco sat and slowly chewed on his pizza, which somehow tasted like cardboard. _Gooey cardboard,_ thought Draco, _but still cardboard._ Facing resolutely away from his closed window, he stared at the shriveled succulent on his shelf. 

The next day, Potter's truck was parked a little farther down the street, at the perfect angle such that Draco could see him when he leaned out the window to take an order or hand a customer their food. Draco half-heartedly pretended that he wasn’t watching, but eventually he dragged his desk over to the window so he could write and still glance out the window occasionally. _Not spying!_ he said to himself, _just...observing._ Draco knew he knew this was a lie, but pretended to believe it anyway. Some people were regulars, he noticed, people that Potter seemed to recognize on sight. Potter’s laugh was especially loud, then, and Draco ignored the stab of ...something... that twisted his gut.

“You're back!” Potter seemed surprised, but also, somehow, excited. _He just wants more customers,_ Draco scolded himself, already regretting coming down the stairs for lunch. “Are you hungry this time?” Potter's smile was a little too knowing, and Draco chose to look at the menu instead. 

Draco eyed the menu warily. Potter cupped his hand over his mouth, obviously hiding a smile. Draco stared steadfastly ahead, refusing to look at Potter. Belatedly, he realized that in his efforts to not look at Potter, he had neglected to actually read what was in front of him. Not that it seemed to matter anyway. Draco was fairly certain the menu wasn't in English. Fortunately, Potter took pity on him. 

"What are you in the mood for?" Unfortunately, that particular question didn't help Draco in the slightest. 

Draco opted for a pretentious sniff to cover his ignorance. "Definitely lunch, Potter. I'm famished." 

Potter was losing the battle against his smile. "Well, if you're hungry, curry is always a classic and filling option." 

Draco grasped the offer desperately, "Right." He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the menu, "Give me one of your best...curry." 

Potter was outright grinning now. "I'm afraid you're going to have to be more specific,” he said gravely. 

"Oh please, Potter, don't play games with me." Draco was reaching the end of his bluffing abilities and without thinking he blurted, "Just surprise me." He immediately regretted his whole life that had led to this moment and whatever inexplicable force compelled him to make such a suggestive comment to Harry Potter, of all people. But it was too late to take it back. He pinched his lips firmly together to prevent further betrayal as Potter's face slid from surprise to pleasure to a smooth mask that Draco definitely did not trust. 

“Alright, one curry then. Do you want that spicy?” 

“What sort of foolish question is that, Potter? No one likes bland food,” Draco retorted.

Potter blinked. “Spicy, not spices.”

Draco didn’t understand what Potter was going on about and decided to bluster his way through it. “Are you doubting me? I said I like spices.”

A small smile played at the corner of Potter’s mouth, and if Draco didn’t know better, he would have sworn it was a smirk. “Riiiiight.”

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“No reason. One spicy curry coming up.” He paused. "Malfoy," he asked, "have you ever had Indian food?" 

"Not...exactly," Draco hedged.

Potter beamed. "Amazing! I get to be your first!" Draco just gaped at him. "I mean," Potter coughed, a blush creeping up his neck, "I mean, umm, I'm happy to help out with that." He was now beet red. "The Indian food I mean." Draco could only nod. "Well," Potter cleared his throat, "I'll pick for you then." Suddenly the grin was back. "I'll surprise you." He winked at Draco. HE WINKED. Draco was completely at loss for words, but Potter had already disappeared into the belly of his strange truck. “I'll only be a moment!" he called. 

He reappeared and handed Draco a brown takeout container, which Draco accepted with the wariness one uses to handle a sleeping cobra. “How much?” he asked. “No, no,” Potter waved him off. “This one’s on the house. Or, on the truck, I suppose.”

“How about for yesterday’s…” Draco trailed off, having forgotten the name of the sweet not-quite-smoothie he had rushed away without paying for. “Lassi,” Potter supplied and added, “Don’t sweat it, I only take Muggle money.” Draco’s eyes darted down the chalkboard menu, such neat print, Potter couldn’t have written that himself!, and found “Mango Lassi.” 

“Malfoy’s don’t sweat,” Draco retorted primly, and placed the cash on the counter. “£5 for the la...lassi, and £1 for tip. A generous tip, I might add.” Potter gaped at him. Draco smirked, relishing _(finally!)_ having the upper hand. “Take care,” he called over his shoulder, and waited till he was safely through the door to his building before mopping the sweat beading his brow. 

Back in the office, he opened the box and eyed the contents with trepidation. The bright orange sauce gleamed at him. _Was this like… stew on rice?_ Draco scooped a forkful up carefully and took his first bite. He had one glorious moment of culinary nirvana before a burning wave obliterated his taste buds, and he coughed until his eyes watered. Gasping, he ran for the tap and began drinking directly from the faucet. As soon as he stopped drinking, however, the burning returned full force. He vaguely recalled Potter handing him something wrapped in warm foil, saying, “You might need this.” Gasping and fanning his mouth, he ran to the table and unwrapped the foil. Flat triangles of bread stared up at him. _Bread?_ In desperation he tore off a piece and shoved it in his mouth. It did help. A little. He took a cautious sip of the lassi, which further soothed his scorched tongue. He found, by a series of experiments, that using a huge rice to curry ratio, he could get through most of the meal breaking only a mild sweat. _Damn it, Potter,_ he swore, grateful that nobody, most especially Potter, had been there to witness those first bites. 

The next morning zipped by. Draco found himself filled with frantic energy and the words just flowed out of him, first in rivulets, then streams, then finally a flood that he scrambled to keep up with. His hand flew over the page, and it wasn’t until his hand was cramping, potentially beyond repair, that he heard the sound of a now-familiar engine rumbling to a stop outside his window. 

A grin split his face before he could suppress it. _It’s just Potter,_ he scolded himself, and then reasoned, _I’m just hungry._

That day Draco tried chutney, garlic naan, samosas, and a different curry that left him panting and sweating profusely. “Malfoys don’t sweat, huh?” Potter teased, and Draco gathered the scraps of his dignity and sniffed, “We perspire, Potty.” He was rewarded with a loud guffaw. Once Draco had successfully patted his face dry of excess moisture, and been offered a sweet lassi to douse the flaming pain in his mouth, he peppered Potter with questions. “How do you fit all of the ingredients in your minuscule truck? How did you learn to make all these different dishes? Weren’t you supposed to, umm why aren’t you...” Draco trailed off. Potter’s face, lit up in amusement from the initial barrage, closed down. “Maybe just start with the first two,” Draco backpedalled. 

The smile was back, along with the enthusiasm. “Would you like the grand tour?” Without waiting for an answer, Potter bounded to the front of the truck with the energy of an irresistible puppy. Draco followed him as Potter swung open the door with a flourish. “The entrance,” he gestured grandly, “to where the magic happens.” 

Draco rolled his eyes. “Not real magic, obviously,” but Potter’s back had turned to him, and he didn’t answer. Instead, the two crammed inside, unable to keep from bumping in to one another in the tiny truck. Draco nodded at the spice racks, the refrigerator, and the tiny stove where a large pot sat bubbling and stirring merrily along. _Wait,_ Draco’s brain caught up to his vision. _Stirring?_ he squeezed past Potter to stare incredulously at the wooden spoon suspended in the curry. “Really, Potter?” He sputtered. “Magic?” Potter studiously avoided his gaze. Draco noticed the absence of electric wiring and flung open the refrigerator. There was a distinct lack of ice. He noted the flickering sconces. “Everlasting Candles???” He pushed past Potter to wipe a swath from the menu. It shimmered, then the letter’s rewrote themselves, in the same pristine handwriting as before. 

“Hey!” Potter hissed. “The Muggles might see!”

“Why didn’t you ward it???”

“Well most people don’t go around wiping it off willy-nilly!”

Draco was still too shocked to laugh at “willy-nilly.” He paused his tirade for moment, thinking. He turned back to Potter. “This is unregistered magic.” A statement, not a question.

Potter shrugged.

“Is it accurate to translate that shrug into ‘I’m Harry Potter, the Chosen One, I can do what I want’”?

Potter cracked a smile, and Draco couldn’t help shrugging, too. _Figures._ He rolled his eyes for good measure.

Somehow, visiting the abhorrently orange truck had become routine. 

Two weeks passed in a blur. Draco was dismayed to be brought back to reality by a call from his boss during lunch on Friday. 

“One second, Potter, I have to take this.” Potter looked surprised, but Draco didn’t have time to think about why. He took a deep breath before accepting the call. “Hello, this is Draco.” 

His boss’ overly chirpy voice blasted into his ear and he winced. He held the phone a careful distance away from his ear as he endured the enthusiastic tirade. Finally, it seemed his boss was wrapping up. “We’re so excited to have you back on Monday, Draco! Two weeks without you??? It hasn’t been the same!” _Monday._ Draco’s heart sank. _Already?_

“Draco?” He had been unresponsive for too long. 

“Ah, right, yes, can’t wait to be back,” Draco replied with as much positivity as he could muster. 

“Alright, gotta run. Talk to you soon! Toodles!”

“Toodles,” Draco replied weakly. 

When he hung up, he noticed Potter staring at him. His mouth seemed to be wrestling with itself and couldn’t decide whether to be shocked or amused. “What?” Draco snapped, more harshly than he intended. Potter didn’t seem to notice. 

“You have a job?” he asked. “And a phone??”

“...yes.” Draco bristled at Potter’s incredulity. 

Potter whistled, a low appreciative note that snaked across Draco’s skin and left goosebumps in its wake. “May I ask?”

“You may,” Draco answered stiffly. An awkward silence followed. “Well?”

Potter laughed. “Is that how it’s going to be?” But then he was silent, staring pensively at his _(untied!)_ sneakers. 

“Well?” Draco repeated. 

“So you’re not coming back Monday?” Potter’s eyes met his and Draco felt his breath catch in his throat. He shook his head, feeling dread sink and settle into his stomach. “That’s your question?” he managed. 

Potters gaze had returned to his sneakers. “Well, no...” he trailed off hesitantly, then straightened his shoulders, seeming to come to some decision. “No, actually, I have lots of questions. But, um, maybe I can ask them over dinner on Saturday night?” Finally, finally, he raised his eyes again and Draco was lost. 

-

Somehow Draco got though Saturday morning, then Saturday afternoon. Really, though, his survival was only because of the presence of a calm and rational friend. 

“I really am rather surprised you called me instead of Pansy,” Hermione had commented when she arrived on his doorstop. Despite his churning nerves, Draco still succeeded in raising a skeptical eyebrow. “I need someone to calm me down, not rile me up.” Hermione nodded, conceding the point. They cooked a hearty breakfast that was probably more elaborate than either of them required, but it filled the time nicely. Draco caught Hermione up on his writing, and she offered to read over his rough draft. Within a couple minutes of his frantic pacing, though, she threw her pen down. “If you need something to do, you can grade my papers.” Draco put up a tiny bit of fuss, but mostly for show. He was infinitely grateful for the distraction. 

An hour or so later, as he emerged from the pile of essays, he experienced an odd out of body feeling. “Do you ever,” he wondered, “think about what our younger selves would say if they could see us now?” Hermione took a deep breath, and smiled a small smile that still carried the weight of grief, and Draco felt a twinge of guilt for bringing up the past. He had never expected to be on cordial terms with the Golden Trio’s resident brainiac, let alone count her among one of his closest friends. He still marveled at the strength of her, that after all he had done and all he represented, she could forgive him. Maybe not completely, that might never happen, but she still could see as human, an infinitely flawed human being who had made terrible, terrible mistakes. Now here she was, gazing at him fondly. Her smile was still sad, but also warm, as if she had been following his thoughts. Instead of answering his question, she only commented, “It definitely helped that you threw yourself into your work at the Gender Equity Center,” proving to Draco that she had, indeed, understood that Draco had been thinking about his own guilt. He blushed, remembering how his public service sentence had at first been a punishment, something to get through. He had rotated through a series of Muggle organizations, all of them dealing with some service or other, none of them remotely connected to the Wizarding world. But whenever he stepped into a new office, although he was always the new guy, he was never a Death-Eater. Not to them. And when he arrived at the Gender and Sexuality Center, despite the dreadfully bright rainbows adorning all available surfaces, he felt welcome. Like he had finally arrived home. 

He had initially been unable to name why exactly that space felt so right. He had gone through a staunch ally phase, then a brief questioning phase that was quickly over thanks to his perceptive and no-nonsense colleagues. He kept waiting to be transferred to the next non-profit, but that day had never come. Instead, he’d been offered a full-time position, and his own tiny, beloved corner cubicle. He had left the Wizarding world with barely a glance back. He still kept in touch with Mother and Pansy. And during the interminable paperwork he had to fill out to transfer to a full Muggle district, turn in his wand, and establish a way to maintain contact with his caseworker, he had been confronted by Hermione. Well, confronted was a strong verb. Although he was honestly terrified, Draco accepted Hermione’s request to come to her office, and wasted no time expressing his responsibility, apologies, and regrets. The letter he had sent had been insufficient, he felt, but also thought that to reach out further would be to impose. Hermione waited him out silently, without changing expression, and Draco eventually ran out of steam and slumped in his chair. 

“What do you plan to do at the Gender and Sexuality Center?” she asked.

Draco, thrown by the sudden redirection, tried to roll with it. Stumbling at first, anxious and self-conscious, he soon got caught up in describing all the good work that the Center did and how his work, in the financial department, although small, helped keep the Center running and able to continue providing the myriad of services they offered. He was so caught up, in fact, that it took awhile for him to notice that Hermione was smiling. He stopped, mid-sentence. She stood up from behind her desk, and Draco mirrored her, uncomprehending. “I just wanted to see it for myself,” she said and walked to the door. “I needed to see it to believe it. Well, hear it,” she corrected, and opened the door for him. “Good luck, Malfoy,” she said. Draco knew a dismissal when he heard one, and stuttered out a “Thank you, Granger,” before she shut the door behind him.

After that, Hermione would drop into the Center every once in a while, greeting all the staff and asking after some Center regulars. She would make her way back to Draco’s cubicle, and soon the brief check-in’s became thoughtful, longer conversations. Granger became Hermione and Malfoy became Draco. They took walks to the park and began meeting for coffee. They never talked about anything Wizarding related, unless Hermione brought it up, and even then it was usually only for Hermione to rant on some new incompetency the Ministry of Magic had unleashed. She rarely brought up any of their old Hogwarts classmates, and Draco had gradually stopped craving any news of them. 

And now, here she was, helping him prepare for the most terrifying date (was it a date?) in his life. “Hermione,” he panicked “what do I wear?!” Hermione didn’t answer, although through his terror Draco noticed that she was smirking. She walked to the window and called out “Pansy, be a dear and come rescue Draco from my fashion choices.” And before Draco could react, a familiar girl was clambering through the window. “Pansy!” Draco rushed over, fussing like a mother hen and guiding her through the opening. “This is the third floor!” he admonished, and Pansy rolled her eyes. “I noticed,” she drawled. With a studied air of nonchalance, (which Draco saw through immediately) as she examined her fingernails, she added, “I’ve been learning Muggle rock climbing.” Draco blinked, well and truly overwhelmed now, but Hermione broke in, “Don’t worry, Draco, I charmed everything in sight. She couldn’t have fallen if she tried.” “Granger! You didn’t!” Before Pansy could get properly worked up, Hermione directed a significant nod in Draco’s direction. Pansy mentally and physically pivoted, and she marched toward Draco’s closet. “I hope you’ve pressed your shirts!” she called over her shoulder, which broke the Stunned spell the interaction had cast on Draco. He scrambled after her, and Hermione rolled her eyes fondly as she turned away. “Harry will just have to make do with my fashion choices,” she murmured, and fished around for the Portkey in her handbag. 

-

Draco was early. He twirled the edge of his sweater around his finger. He had been skeptical, and Pansy’s reasoning hadn’t exactly helped. (“You don’t have much muscle, Draco, but your lack of any body fat helps you look as though you do.”) The slim black sweater felt impossibly soft, with a not-so-subtle v-neck that made Pansy whistle. She refused to let him wear dress pants, so Draco was wearing jeans that were almost black but looked deliberately faded. . There was even a tear at the knee. “Did you buy these used, Pansy?” he asked incredulously, but Pansy laughed. “How do you spend so much time around Muggles and not have learned anything about Muggle fashion?” Draco shrugged uncomfortably. He greatly enjoyed his coworkers, and their style, and all their opinionated commentary on style, but had never felt comfortable joining in. And never experimenting with anything either. He just want to blend it. Not stand out. 

He turned to face the mirror. He was surprised to feel a smile creeping across his face as he studied his reflection. Pansy’s brow was still creased, but then she lit up. “Where did you put those boots?” She dashed back to his closet and started tossing shoes haphazardly behind her. “Not these, no, not these either...” Quietly, Draco reached under his bed and pulled out the box that had been collecting dust since he had impulsively bought it weeks ago. He turned over a shoe in his hands, then slipped them both on his feet. The gold buckles glinted and winked at him. Behind him, Pansy sighed dramatically. “They were the ones with the heels! Draco do you know where you put...” She trailed off and Draco felt rather than saw her appear behind him. With uncharacteristic softness, Pansy added “One last touch,” and removed one of Draco’s subtle studs from his earlobe. She threaded a thin gold chain through it and let it hang, draped through each side. Then she wrapped her arms around his waist from behind and tucked her chin over his shoulder. “You look brilliant.”

Draco blushed and deflected. “You’re on your tiptoes, Pans.”

“Hush, you’re wearing heels.”

“What about the other earring?”

“There’s no other earring. This is The Look.”

It was definitely a Look. 

-

Potter was late. _Unless he wasn’t going to show up…_

Before Draco’s mind could go further down that gnome hole there was a pop and Draco was faced with the sudden reality that Potter was, indeed, here. 

Draco was speechless. Pansy had managed to convince him to dress down, if gold buckled black leather heels could be considered casual. Potter seemed to have been advised to do the opposite. Draco drank in the sight of him, his gorgeous brown curls tumbling over his shoulders, his beard (neatly trimmed, some part of Draco’s brain noted), the tailored and sharply creased pants, the incredibly well fitted blazer over a crisp white button down. The top buttons were undone enough to reveal a hint of collarbone that Draco ached to brush with his fingers. He realized with belated clarity that he was gawking. Potter coughed lightly. “My eyes are up here.” Draco blushed, but realized that Potter was blushing as well. 

-

Draco quickly abandoned the menu and surrendered himself to the culinary gods. “I trust you, Potter,” he said simply. 

Potter just stared at him a moment, then swallowed. “Harry.” 

Draco took a deep breath and repeated himself. “I trust you, Harry.” 

“I’m honored,” Harry paused, and Draco finished, “...Draco.”

“I’m honored, Draco,” Harry repeated, and smiled. Once the dishes had been ordered, Draco had quickly started peppering him with questions.

“Tell me about the food truck.”

“There’s a quick answer, would you like that one?” Draco shook his head. “Alright. Well, the quick answer was that I was looking for something different.”

“You succeeded, I daresay,” Draco drawled.

“Yeah, no kidding, right? It’s not a lie, either. I was enrolled in the academy to become an Auror, but it didn’t take long to realize that my PTSD, oh, that’s Post-Traumatic Stress Disorders, it’s this Muggle term for…”

“I know what PTSD is,” Draco interjected quietly.

“Oh.” Harry looked surprised. “Okay.”

“It didn’t take you long to realize…” Draco reminded him, and Harry was off again.

“...that my PTSD was really triggered by Auror work so I dropped out pretty quickly. I couldn’t figure out what I wanted to do! Everything just felt like so much was riding on me to pick this or that, and I just wanted to do nothing. To fill my time, I kinda just started poking around Indian restaurants and grocery stores and shops, asking lots of questions. Some people ended up sort of adopting me.”

“Why Indian restaurants?”

“I’m Indian,” Harry replied simply.

“I didn’t know that,” Draco admitted.

“Neither did I! I guess I always thought I was just tan?” Harry shrugged. “After the War, once I had some time to really take a look at some family photos, and ask around to some of my parents’ old friends, I realized that my entire family was not as pale as the Dursleys. I’m part Indian, actually. Punjabi, on my dad’s side. The Dursleys were just as embarrassed about that as me being able to do magic, so they never told me.”

“Yikes.”

“Yeah, and that’s one of the milder things they did to me.” Harry’s face clouded, continuing, “It felt like another loss. That there was this whole part of me that I didn’t even know about. It felt positive, like something I could control, to try and find out more of my family history and this culture I never had a chance to be a part of. It gave me purpose.”

Draco didn’t know how to respond to that, so he just nodded. Listening.

“I didn’t know where to start, so I would just pop into the same places where people were especially friendly and ended up making some real friends!”

Draco had no doubt that Harry’s enthusiasm could disarm and charm just about anyone. 

“A lot of mothers were horrified that I’d never had proper homemade Indian food. And I’d snoop around the kitchen and ask enough annoying questions that they ended up teaching me some recipes. And here I am.” He grinned again, _(how did his cheeks not hurt?)_ and Draco couldn’t help but grin back. 

“Hermione was the one who suggested I go ‘off-the-grid,’ so to speak. Take a break from the pressure of the Wizarding community. She also suggested I go abroad, but I realized that for most witches and wizards, Muggle London might as well be abroad. So I’m hiding here, in plain sight. But, enough of about me,” said Harry. “I want to hear about you.”

Draco grimaced. 

“Oh, c’mon! You’ve let me chatter away this whole time and you haven’t even- ooh food!” Harry’s complaint was interrupted by the arrival of their meal, and other than a quick explanatory introduction on Harry’s part, the next few minutes were silent, broken only by quiet chewing and appreciative groans. 

“So, this is Thai food?” Draco broke the silence tentatively. 

“Right!” Harry said. “I first tried Thai food when-” but he cut himself off before he could launch into another series of stories. “Wait wait wait,” he reprimanded. “It’s your turn.”

Draco sighed. “Fire away.”

“Hey!” Harry protested, “this isn’t an interrogation!” Draco raised an eloquent eyebrow. “Just,” Harry searched for a gentle beginning. “Just start with your job?” 

It was the right thing to say. Although increasingly reluctant to go back to work, Draco could feel his passion bubbling to the surface. He told Harry about the Center, and his co-workers, and his work. (“Who knew that my financial skills from managing the Malfoy fortune would come in handy this way?”) He retold the stories of his terrible confusion regarding electricity and technology and fashion. “I think someone told them I was Amish?” Draco still didn’t understand why that made sense to his coworkers, but Harry seemed to. 

“But if the Center is downtown,” Draco started at Harry’s casual observation, but Harry continued on, “what have you been doing at that apartment building? I seem to remember you saying you lived somewhere else?”

So, blushing and refusing to meet Harry’s eye, Draco blurted out his secret desire becoming a writer, and his boss’ blessing to take two weeks off to work on his novel, and Hermione’s offer to edit it- “Hermione?” Harry broke in. “Like, Hermione Granger, Hermione?”

It hadn’t occurred to Draco that Hermione wouldn’t have told Harry that they had become friends. “Do you know many Hermiones?” he asked cautiously.

“Well, no,” Harry scratched his head, looking uncomfortable. “It’s just that Hermione made it sound like…” he trailed off, but Draco was having none of it. 

“Sound like what, Potter?”

“...she never really made it sound like you two were friends.”

Draco sat, stunned, unable to respond. _Hermione hadn’t told him they were friends? Was it...was it because she didn’t actually consider them friends?_ Draco’s anxiety kicked into overdrive as he frantically tried to figure out if it was possible Hermione had faked being his friend in order to get back at him for past transgressions.

Harry must’ve seen the wildness in his eyes because he called over the waitstaff. “The check, please?” 

As they waited, Draco struggled to maintain composure. Harry broke the silence: “Look, I...let’s take a walk.” 

Draco stood stiffly, his mind racing to figure out what Hermione’s game had been. 

Small details began floating up in his memory. The conversation in her office. Hermione casually tossing a week’s old Prophet on his desk and forgetting to pick it up when she left, **_‘Golden Boy is Rainbow Boy???’_** blazing across the front page. The way her piercing stare sharpened in the rare moments she mentioned Harry, and Draco’s futile attempts to feign disinterest. Her insistence on getting the address of his temporary office but never coming to visit. By the time they had left the restaurant, Draco only needed a couple questions answered to verify his theory. 

“Did Hermione suggest that you change your lunchtime parking spot?”

“Yes, but I didn’t know why!” Harry objected.

“Do you know now?” Draco continued ruthlessly.

Harry wouldn’t meet his eye. “I...I think so,” Harry answered quietly. 

“Did she help you get ready tonight?”

“Yes, wait, did she tell you that?”

Draco ignored him. “Did she tell you that I’m gay? Was this all a setup?” Draco was angry, but could also feel the hot tears building at the edge of his vision. _Had she been playing the long game? Winning his trust so that she could expose his weaknesses and hit him where it hurt the most?_ His paranoia widened. _Was Harry in on it, too?_ The betrayal sunk in his gut like a stone.

“What!? Draco, no-” Draco turned to face the wall, trying to even his breathing and hide the tears that had already spilled down his cheeks.

“Draco.” Harry fidgeted, and moved closer to Draco, hovering behind him without actually making contact. “I didn’t know the two of you were friends.” Draco couldn’t keep back a hiccuping sob at that, but Harry scrambled to explain. “I think she implied it, probably many times over, but she never said anything directly other than mentioning you offhand in a way that seemed like, well, like she saw you differently now. That you changed. I, I umm, didn’t press her. But I guess Ron wanted details, so she mentioned your community service and that you’d had some conversations that convinced her. But not much more than that.” Draco could hear Harry shifting back and forth, scuffing his shoes on the ground. “And then I saw you that day at your office? Just for a second, when you came out of your building.” 

Draco squirmed at Harry’s mild summary of his flight from that first meeting. His back still turned, Draco focused on controlling his breathing. 

“When I was with Ron and Hermione at dinner, I guess I couldn’t stop talking about you. I’ve always,” Harry paused, and Draco held his breath. “I’ve always had a thing about you. For you.” He inhaled deeply, and expelled it in his next sentence: “I was in denial about it while we were in school. Thought I was just obsessed because you were up to something. But after the War, it didn’t go away. I used to,” he reddened, but ploughed on. “...used to, umm, check up on what you were doing in the Prophet and stuff, but at some point you just seemed to vanish. Hermione didn’t seem to know anything, and Ron told me to shut up about it. So I did. Well, until I ran into you again.” 

Draco realized his hands had clenched into fists and he worked to consciously relax them.

“Will you turn around, please?” Harry asked. Draco did, slowly.

“I didn’t know you were gay,” Harry continued softly, “until that day when I handed you the mango lassi and I saw you were wearing a rainbow bracelet.” Draco thumbed the beads circling his wrist. “I guess it could’ve just been coincidental, but...I hoped it wasn’t. Isn’t.”

“It isn’t,” Draco confirmed faintly.

Harry smiled hesitantly. “And I wasn’t expecting anything, am not expecting anything,” he corrected, “you’ve just been so much fun to talk to, like all that back and forth banter from school but…”

“But without any of the viciousness.” Draco finished.

“Exactly,” Harry agreed. “So, yeah. I’m not sure I ever would’ve gotten the courage to seek you out on my own. So when you when you said you were friends with Hermione, it all fell into place. That our chance meeting was really just Hermione knowing me better than I know myself.”

Draco struggled with himself for a moment, wrestling with years of conditioning to bottle and mask and hide. _Could Hermione really have been trying to help him?_

“I-” he choked out, and Harry’s head shot up, with such a frail but vibrant hope in his eyes that Draco could feel his heart breaking. “I have also, ah, ‘had a thing’ for you for awhile.” He heard Harry’s quick intake of breath. “I never told Hermione as much, but if Pansy is to believed, it wasn’t a very subtle thing to behold.” Draco’s cheeks burned at the memory of her gleeful retelling of the mounting evidence. “I know the two of them are friendly with each other these days, but I hadn’t realized that involved conspiring to play matchmaker. Today, Hermione kept me company until Pansy came over to, well, dress me in this,” he admitted, sweeping a hand from top to bottom. Bravely, he met Harry’s eyes, and the appreciative look in them surprised him. Harry took a step closer.

“I guess Hermione knew better than both of us,” Harry murmured, and Draco’s gaze snagged on his parted lips. 

“That shouldn’t surprise anyone,” Draco returned, and when their eyes met again he caught Harry’s gaze flick to Draco’s own lips and back up. 

“I suppose we’ll have to thank her,” Harry whispered, now achingly close.

“Something like that,” Draco whispered back, and closed the space between them. 

-END-

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! All comments are extremely welcome either here or on [Livejournal](https://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/155124.html).


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